


It's All A Show

by fengirl88



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: cottoncandy_bingo, Humour, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:22:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade has a surprise for Sherlock after a case.  A very <i>public</i> surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's All A Show

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rusty_armour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rusty_armour/gifts).



> written for rusty_armour's request for Sherlock/Lestrade; fill for the "question/request" square on my cottoncandy_bingo card.
> 
> thanks to Kalypso for beta wisdom and to ginbitch, kate_lear and warriorbot for suggesting Lestrade's music choices.

The British Library case is finally over, after a lively chase through the stacks and some scenes the designer of that glass book-tower definitely hadn't bargained for...

Lestrade follows the direction of Sherlock's gaze to where John Watson is still being chatted up by the cute assistant curator from Rare Books. From the look of things, this could go on for quite some time.

“Come on,” Lestrade says. “Let's go back to mine.”

If his experience of librarians is anything to go by, you don't want to be in the vicinity when your flatmate brings one home for a night of passion. Also, it must be _weeks_ since Watson last got laid (Lestrade doesn't keep track of these things, but he always knows when it happens because of Sherlock's grumbling about it), and it seems only decent to give the poor bugger his privacy. 

Which means taking Sherlock off for his usual post-case ritual of dim sum and lots of sex. It's a dirty job but somebody's got to do it.

“Stop _smirking_ ,” Sherlock complains.

“I'm not smirking,” Lestrade says. “I'm looking forward to a quiet evening in, which given I've just asked you round is probably unrealistic.”

Sherlock mutters something under his breath. Looks back again at Watson and the librarian. Lestrade sighs and wraps the end of Sherlock's scarf around his wrist. Tugs on it.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” he says, in his best DI voice. “Come _on_.”

Still muttering, Sherlock follows him out of the library.

“Why are we going in here?” Sherlock whinges as Lestrade heads into St Pancras International.

Honestly, it's like dealing with a bloody five-year-old sometimes. Lestrade fights the urge to snap back _Because I say so_.

“Something to show you,” he says.

Sherlock projects exaggerated boredom at the thought of seeing anything in St Pancras station, or possibly at the thought of seeing anything anywhere in the world ever again. One of these days Lestrade really is going to have to have a serious talk with him about this sort of behaviour. If he doesn't want to shag John himself – and apparently he doesn't – he should stop throwing a tantrum every time John has it off with someone else.

“It looks _exactly_ the same as usual,” Sherlock says.

“Come here often, do you?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock scowls. “No, obviously. What is this thing you want to show me?”

Lestrade gestures at the upright piano behind the glass lift.

“So?” Sherlock says, glaring at the unfortunate young man currently stumbling through Nobody Does It Better. Not the best choice of song, really. The young man wilts under the glare, finishes abruptly and shuffles away, looking like he wishes he'd never started.

“Right,” Lestrade says, seating himself at the piano.

“Oh, you are _joking_ ,” Sherlock says. Going for disdainful, probably, though it comes out more like horrified.

Lestrade grins at him and starts playing Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life. The cheery tune's pretty much guaranteed to annoy Sherlock on its own, even if he's deleted the whole of Monty Python or never knew it in the first place. 

Before you know it, he's got a steadily growing audience – Eurostar voyagers, Southeastern commuters, it's hard to tell. Not just an audience, either: they want to _sing_ , and they're very keen. Some of them know all the words, and most of the rest join in the chorus. Lestrade glances sideways at Sherlock, who is staring in disbelief, but not actively interfering, which is probably the most you can hope for at this point.

A few people call out requests at the end of the song. Lestrade turns a deaf ear – he thinks they should probably be going – but then a young blonde woman asks him if he can do You're The Top.

Oh. He wouldn't have thought of that, but... “Yeah,” he says. “OK.”

He's always managed to dodge the horrors of NSY's occasional karaoke nights, and it's _years_ since he last sang in public, even as part of a group. But all the notes are still there, in more or less the right order, and he manages to get through the whole thing without forgetting any of the words. Which is practically a miracle, given how many of them there are...

There's real honest-to-god applause at the end, which is nice, though rather embarrassing. He gets up hastily and makes his escape while they're still calling for an encore, because he's not a complete idiot.

Sherlock is walking fast towards the taxi-rank, scowling ferociously. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

“Come _on_ ,” he says, practically dragging Lestrade into the nearest taxi, ignoring the indignation of the queue he's just jumped. He gives the cabbie Lestrade's address and huddles in the corner, tugging his coat collar up around his ears.

There's an awkward silence. Sherlock's the one who breaks it.

“You could have been there for _ages_ ,” he says, aggrieved. 

“Yeah, well, you know what they say,” Lestrade says, “Always take your exits before they boo you.”

“Do they,” Sherlock says tightly, sounding like he wants to go round and thump them, whoever they are.

“Read it somewhere,” Lestrade says.

He half-expects Sherlock to say something sarky at that, but he doesn't. Doesn't say anything at all for the rest of the ride. The silence is pretty uncomfortable. Lestrade hopes Watson appreciates the sacrifice he's making on his behalf.

“You never told me you could sing,” Sherlock says accusingly, once they're through the door. “ _Or_ play the piano.”

“No, well,” Lestrade says. “Didn't exactly come up, did it? Thought I'd surprise you for a change –”

He's about to apologise, god help him, but he doesn't get the chance. Sherlock pushes him against the wall, narrowly missing the coat-rack, and kisses him, hard.

Ah. It's just possible Lestrade may have misinterpreted a crucial bit of data back there –

Not that he's really in much of a state to revise his thinking with Sherlock shoving his hand down Lestrade's trousers.

“Nnghh,” Lestrade says, clinging on to Sherlock's waist so he doesn't fall down.

Apparently Sherlock _does_ like surprises. Either that, or he's more of a closet Cole Porter fan than Lestrade imagined – and oh god this isn't going to take long at all if Sherlock keeps doing that...

Lestrade fumbles for Sherlock's zip and finds him already hard, the tip of his cock wet as he jerks under Lestrade's touch. Wrapping Sherlock's hand around them both, Lestrade pulls and tugs until he sees stars.

There's a pain in his neck. Literally. Christ, Sherlock's biting him, a real proper bite.

“Bloody vampire,” Lestrade gasps. “Oh, fuck.”

Sherlock stops biting and starts moaning against his neck, which Lestrade would feel smug about if he had the energy. Or if he wasn't trying to work out whether they can get as far as the sofa before they both collapse.

“Fuck,” Lestrade says again, because _Could you not wait until we're at least in the vicinity of a more comfortable flat surface before you jump me_ feels like too much of a mouthful at the moment.

Sherlock makes a different sort of noise that Lestrade realizes is actually giggling, or what passes for giggling with Sherlock. He doesn't do it often. It's very silly and more endearing than he has any right to be.

“Come and sit down, for fuck's sake,” Lestrade says.

“Can't,” Sherlock says, still giggling. “Legs don't work.”

“I'm not going to carry you,” Lestrade warns him.

They end up in a messy heap on the hall floor, which Lestrade probably ought to hoover more often. Oh well.

“If you wanted to switch, you could just have said so,” Sherlock says, and goes off into another fit of giggles.

Takes Lestrade a minute to get what he's on about. Of course you could take the song that way, though it's not how he meant it. And it probably _is_ what people assume about him and Sherlock in bed: that he's the bottom and Sherlock's the top.

“Huh,” Lestrade says, wincing slightly as his bruises start to make themselves felt. “I hope that wasn't a sample of you trying to top me. I'm going to have to wear a scarf to work, you prat. In _September_.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock says.

Lestrade wonders if he could get that in writing. Frame it and put it on his office wall. Maybe another time.

“Time to eat,” he says. He's starving, and Sherlock must be too, though he always refuses to admit it.

Sherlock doesn't argue. He leans heavily against Lestrade and steals his phone to call the Chinese place down the road.

“Why _did_ you sing that one?” Sherlock asks, once he's placed their usual order.

“It was a request,” Lestrade says. He knows it's not much of an answer, but he feels too shagged out to come up with a better one.

“Ha,” Sherlock says, with a glint in his eye that bodes no good at all. “If you're open to _requests_ –”

“Dinner first,” Lestrade says firmly.

“OK,” Sherlock says, with suspicious meekness. “You're the boss.” He starts humming You're The Top. Cheeky sod.

Lestrade's obviously going to have to be more careful about taking requests in future.

Or maybe not.

**Author's Note:**

> St Pancras International station really does have a piano for public use.
> 
> Title from Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life, various versions of which exist on YouTube, ranging from the original film version in Monty Python's Life Of Brian to one with full choir and orchestra in a packed Albert Hall... Special thanks to ginbitch for suggesting that Lestrade might enjoy winding Sherlock up by playing that particular song.
> 
> I like [this version](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x_QqaqXTirg) of You're The Top, not just because it's Cole Porter singing and accompanying himself, but because you get lots of pictures of the wonderful Louise Brooks into the bargain.
> 
> I am sorry not to have seen the production of _The Importance of Being Earnest_ which apparently began with Rupert Graves (as Algernon) in his boxer shorts, playing the piano; but I'm grateful to Kalypso for telling me about it. I'm also grateful to second_skin for reminding me that RG plays the piano in _A Room With A View_ \- around 4.16 [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gCznsjnrQ2A).


End file.
